


Precious Coin

by fms_fangirl



Series: Jealous Time [7]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Drama, Established Relationship, M/M, Other, Sacrifice, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 09:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7043581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fms_fangirl/pseuds/fms_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Powerful forces want to separate Grell and Undertaker for eternity.</p>
<p>The series finally has a name. Some familiarity with the earlier stories, especially <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4700900/chapters/10734098">The Lenten Season</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6786544">Mothering Sunday</a> would probably help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On a good day, this was William’s favourite hour. When the day shift returned, all unharmed, with completed reports and the night shift had left for their scheduled collections. When souls collected matched recorded deaths and all names on the To Die list had been accounted for. On a good day, he could hear the discreet hum of activity outside his office door and finish his own paperwork, leave the office on time and look forward to a quiet evening at home.

This had not been a good day. One agent had returned injured badly enough to keep him off duty for a week, two of the afternoon shift had been late reporting in with absurd excuses and two of the secretaries were engaged in some sort of dispute which had spilled over to the rest of the office. Drawers were banged shut and doors slammed closed all day long with excessive force; everyone was surly and bad-tempered—caught up in the charged atmosphere of the outer office.

He had never imagined that he would miss Grell.

She might be hot-tempered and reckless. Her flamboyance and outrageousness might have driven him to madness for decades, but, at least, she didn’t _sulk_. At least, her violent rages blew over as quickly as they flared up and, recalling the insolent faces of the tardy agents when he reprimanded them and assigned overtime, at least, she didn’t hold grudges.

Grell had changed so much. A neat stack of trainee evaluations testified to that fact—all submitted scrupulously on time, carefully detailed, balanced and fair. She had changed so little—all were written in bright purple ink on green paper. He needed to inform her, however, that violet-scented ink gave him a headache.

Perhaps her happiness with Undertaker had made her kinder or allowed her to reveal the softer side of her nature that she had kept carefully hidden. Perhaps the extraordinary events of the past year and brush with the Divine had given her the assurance to deal with frightened and bewildered new trainees with infinite patience and gentleness, but, he admitted, she had been a generous and kind mentor to Ronald Knox when he joined the Dispatch.

He missed her. He missed the sight of her stalking around the office in that scarlet coat. He missed her dramatic pronouncements and, sometimes, he even missed her ridiculous protestations of undying love for him. And he was looking forward to tomorrow, when he would join her and Agent Walsh, the other trainee instructor, to assign the pairings for this year’s final exam. Memories washed over him. That had been their formal introduction and now, close to a century later, they would sit together on the other side of the table.

His thoughts were interrupted when Ronald burst into his office.

“Boss!” he exclaimed. “Come quick! You can’t miss this!”

He adjusted his glasses and glared at the younger man. “Honestly Ronald! Is such a fuss necessary?”

“It’s Grell and Undertaker!” He grabbed William by the arm and attempted to drag him from his desk. “They’re going at it in the practice field. Not like _that_ ,” he hurried to add.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“You know how she brought him in to talk to the students today?” At William’s nod, he continued, “One of them asked a question and his answer got her back up. Next thing you know, she’s challenged him to meet her in the field. Come on!” he complained, tugging at his arm. “We’re going to miss it.”

Miss a chance to see Grell and Undertaker engage in combat? Not likely! In defiance of all Dispatch regulations, William opened a portal and pulled Ronald through with him.

XXXXXXXXXX

The practice field was a large open area outside the training facility, dotted with walls of varying heights and, at one end, a simulated London street lined with houses. Word had gotten out; a large crowd had already gathered to watch the two figures slowly circling each other.

“What did he say to annoy her so?” William asked, pushing his way to the front.

“Something about how cooler heads would always prevail in combat,” one of the students replied.

“He’s right,” he insisted.

“Perhaps,” Ronald said, “But you know Senpai. She took it personally and got all hot and bothered, I heard.”

The late afternoon sun glinted off their Death Scythes. A sudden breeze lifted Undertaker’s hair, giving the crowd a rare glimpse of his face.

“Whew!” William heard one of the secretaries sigh to her companion. “That Grell is one lucky cow.”

The assembled throng was growing larger. The Dispatch office and training building must be completely empty, he thought. Ronald was standing with the students, flirting with one of the two female candidates. William frowned. The women were going to have enough to deal with; they didn’t need to be treated as potential conquests by the rest of the Dispatch. He spied the other, Martina, standing at the edge of the crowd, shading her eyes against the sun as she scowled at the field and wondered briefly if she ever smiled.

Grell’s voice floated across the field. “Darling,” she taunted, “are you sure you don’t want to fetch your spectacles? You’re at a considerable disadvantage.”

“Not at all, my dear,” he shouted back and lunged, swinging his Scythe.

Grell’s flashed down in a deadly arc, barely missing his, but he thrust forward again. His blade clashed against her chainsaw with such force as to send her reeling backwards and, just as she steadied herself, he leapt at her. She dodged his assault, spinning through the air and easily parried his blows.

Her laughter rang out. “Is that the best you can do?”

She took to the attack with furious swipes of her Scythe. Undertaker, who had abandoned his usual robes and hat that day, was clad in the frock-coat he had worn while active. It flared out about him as he whirled gracefully, brandishing his Scythe in wide circles to deflect her onslaught. He caught hold of her sleeve, and drawing his arm back, swooped his Scythe towards her. Grell arched backwards, avoiding the blade and planted her foot against his chest to free herself.

Now Undertaker was on the offence. Grell leapt and twirled, dodging his strikes, ducked just as the blade whistled over her head and caught the arc of his Scythe with her own. He brought his down, forcing her to the ground. She rolled away and jumped to her feet. They faced one another, moving in a slow circle.

“Had enough, my dearest?” he called out.

“Never darling,” she cried with a scornful laugh.

They were like dancers, William thought, lunging and parrying with grace such as he had never seen. Undertaker had a slight advantage, he believed. Grell was more easily deceived by his feints than he was by hers. She was more reckless and impulsive in her strikes, compared to Undertaker’s cool detachment. He was stronger, but she was quicker and her reflexes were superb.

Ronald had joined him. “You don’t think they would actually hurt each other, do you?” he asked quietly.

William shook his head. “Undertaker would _never_ harm her. And as for Grell . . . ”

“Yeah,” he replied. “She’d probably throw herself on her own Death Scythe.”

Undertaker had backed Grell against a low wall. She was bent backwards, holding her Death Scythe in front of her face as she forced his away with such strength as to send him flying. He recovered immediately and charged at her, his Scythe whirling so quickly that only a flash of silver could be seen. Her hair streaming wildly about her, Grell dropped to her knees and caught his Scythe with a sudden upward swing of her own. He tumbled through the air over her head and landed in a crouch.

“Getting tired, dear?” she mocked, hurling herself at him.

A shower of sparks flew when he crashed his Scythe against hers as he sprang to his feet. He unleashed a volley of blows that knocked her backwards with every strike and forced her Death Scythe to the ground. She was trembling as she attempted to push back against him.

“You’re looking weary, my love,” he laughed. “So much wasted effort.”

Snarling with rage, Grell forced his Scythe up and spun from his reach, leaping over his blade as he swivelled on his heel and ducking beneath it when he completed the circle. Her coat flying behind her, she brandished her Death Scythe from over her head, smashing it against Undertaker’s over and over. He stepped back with every blow until he encountered a wall.

“My poor darling,” she crooned, “your back is truly against the wall now.”

Undertaker rammed the handle of his Scythe into her mid-section, knocking her to the ground and stood over her, laughing in triumph, the blade against her neck. “Or the knife is at your throat, my dear. Ready to concede?”

Her laughter could be heard across the field. “What if we call it a draw?” She held her Death Scythe between his legs, resting against his groin.

Laughing harder, Undertaker pulled her to her feet. They panted harshly and stared at each other for a long moment until he caught her by the waist and, with a mighty swoop of his Scythe, opened a portal and pulled her through.

William cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. “I suppose someone had better tell the students that class is dismissed for the day.”

XXXXXXXXXX

They tumbled through the portal into their bedroom at Undertaker’s shop. Scooping Grell up into his arms, he dropped her onto the bed, yanked off her neck ribbon and pulled her waistcoat and shirt open in one motion, sending buttons flying across the room.

“Little witch,” he muttered, fastening his mouth against her neck.

Grell fumbled with his flies and reached in to grasp hold of him. Laughing softly, she found him fully aroused. “Now darling!” she cried. “Don’t keep me waiting,” she moaned, lifting her hips as he pulled down her trousers and undergarment.

She was shaking with want, had been since he bore her to the ground in the field and urged him on, drawing up her legs to offer herself to him. Undertaker’s nails scratched against her sensitive flesh while he smeared oil between her buttocks, the discomfort only adding to her passion and she cried out in pain and pleasure when he sank into her with a single, swift thrust.

He was battering her without mercy while he handled her roughly. Grell’s blood was singing; she was caught up in a dark and furious rapture, helpless in the ferocity of their shared need. Wonderfully filled, caught on the sharp edge of ecstasy, she spurred him on, shamelessly begging him to fill her, to ravage her, to take her completely.

She gloried in Undertaker’s heedless desire, rose up to meet his almost brutal thrusts and wantonly implored him to give her more. He caught her up and carried her to the crest. She could hear his low groans and feel him throb deep in her own centre and, with a harsh cry, cast herself from the peak.

They lay, spent and trembling, shaking from the force of their coupling. Undertaker eased away carefully and gathered her into his arms. “Are you all right, my dearest? Did I hurt you?”

The concern and tenderness in his expression made her feel weak with love. She stretched luxuriously and smiled up at him. Pushing his hair back to gaze into his extraordinary eyes, she murmured, “Only in the best possible way, my darling.”

“And here?” He fingered the bruise on her torso from his Scythe handle.

“It’s nothing,” she insisted, waving her hand impatiently at him. “It should be gone by tomorrow.”

She rose and made her way to the water closet where she cleaned herself up quickly and grinned at her reflection. She was still flushed and dark bruises were already colouring her neck. Her shirt wasn’t going to hide those and she giggled at the thought of sitting at the examiners’ table the following day, picturing William’s disapproval. But it wouldn’t really be suitable to face the students covered in love bites; she would have to make-up carefully.

Undertaker had donned his robes and was brewing a pot of tea when she joined him in the kitchen, wearing a cotton wrapper. “There’s a pork pie in the larder. Shall I fetch us some? I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked up quite an appetite,” she grinned.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

She returned with two generous portions to find him slicing bread. He handed her a plate with a thick slice and poured her tea into a large earthenware beaker. Grell blinked in surprise. He knew she preferred her bread sliced thin and usually humoured her by drinking his tea from one of the dainty flowered cups he had bought her. He seemed preoccupied and thoughtful.

“Darling,” she asked, “are you all right? I—I didn’t cause you any injury this afternoon, did I?”

He shook his head and spread butter and jam on his bread. “Not at all,” he replied, taking a large gulp of his tea. Suddenly, he put down his mug and took her hand. “Grell, my dear,” he began.

“Oh dear,” she interrupted, “I’ve upset you, haven’t I?”

“No,” he insisted, “but I would ask that you do not challenge me like that again. I could hardly refuse without embarrassing you and making myself look foolish. I do not care to be put into that sort of position.”

“But it was wonderful!” she exclaimed. “You were magnificent!” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You weren’t holding back, were you?”

“Not at all. You would have known, but I do not like to lose any more than you do and I could never forgive myself if I hurt you in the heat of battle.”

“So you’re admitting that you might not always maintain that cool head you were talking about?” she giggled.

He smiled reluctantly. “You will always be able to make me lose my head, my dearest. Can you be satisfied with the knowledge that we are equally matched? I think today proved that.”

“Pity,” she said. “I was already looking forward to our next encounter. That was the best workout I’ve had since I fought with Sebastian.” She sighed. “I do love working with the trainees, but, sometimes, I miss the excitement.”

“I know you do, my dear, and today was exhilarating—especially the aftermath,” he smiled. “I’ll give you that sort of workout any time you like.” He ate several bites and spoke again. “Have you made the teams for the final exam yet? You’ve been fretting about it for days.”

“Finally. Oliver and I settled everything at last.”

“And the two women? Was there any difficulty in choosing partners for them?”

“Not for Katie. It’s funny,” Grell said, “she’s such a tiny, fluffy looking thing. She reminds me of Lady Elizabeth, but she scored near the top of the class in practical. I was concerned that none of the men would want to be paired with the females, but several have asked if they might be partnered with her. I _do_ want the women to do well. It’s disgraceful that it took them so long to bring women into the Dispatch again.”

“It was very poorly handled before,” Undertaker sighed. “The Black Death was raging; we were desperate for agents. More than half of the population of London died in the space of a few years. They had some absurd notion that they should only be assigned to collect children—thought it would be easier and sent them out with almost no real training.”

“How dreadful!”

“It was. Two didn’t survive their first collection and the others . . . They gave up. They were easy prey for demons and Management had foolishly believed that the soul of a child could be collected without difficulty. None of us likes to collect a child. Think of doing nothing but. It’s no surprise that they didn’t last a year.”

“Ridiculous!” Grell snorted. “And I suppose, as usual, the Council and Management refused to take any responsibility—just blamed it on the fact they were women.”

“And that is why what you are doing now is so important. It may not be as exciting as collecting, but to ensure that future agents are well prepared is more vital than ever.”

“I know. My own training was so difficult. Things could have been so different if they had only answered my questions.”

“Well, my dear, it didn’t help that William convinced you that unsuccessful trainees were sent straight to hell.”

“He didn’t know any better himself,” she said, shaking her head. “He was just as confused and frightened as I was.” She ate in silence for a few minutes until her eye was caught by a letter lying on the table. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing her fork at it. She was certain she recognized the Council’s imposing letterhead.

“Oh! That? It arrived this morning. You were so wrapped up in getting me to the realm today, I forgot about it.”

“But what is it?”

“A Notice of Summons from the Council.”

“Gracious! Whatever for?”

“Who knows?” he shrugged. “Probably something about missing my annual eye exam for the past fifty years or maybe they’re going to try to collect my Library fines. They must be quite substantial by now,” he chuckled.

“They wouldn’t send a formal Notice for something that trivial,” Grell worried. “It must be something quite serious.” She picked up their plates and carried them to the sink. Filling the sink with water, she scrubbed the dishes meticulously, stubbornly trying to block out the one thought that occupied her mind. She glanced at Undertaker and knew that he was thinking the same thing.

“You don’t suppose . . . ” she began.

“I suppose nothing,” he said sharply. “And you mustn’t dwell on such an absurd idea.”

“But darling, what else could it be? The Council almost never send a Notice of Summons.” She snatched a towel and began to dry the plates. “Of—of course, it would be wonderful.” Her lips began to quiver. “It’s why we’re here, after all.”

“My dearest,” Undertaker crossed the small space between them and turned her to face him, “you mustn’t fret. I’m sure it’s something insignificant. You know how the Council loves to make everything sound so dire.”

She swallowed hard. “Of course. And there are others, who have been here longer than you. They would have served their time before you were called.”

“Quite,” he replied, “so please stop fussing.”

Grell spent the evening curled up in a chair in their sitting area, sewing the buttons back onto her shirt and waistcoat, trying to quiet her thoughts, but, every few minutes, she looked across the room at Undertaker, apparently engrossed in a book. Except he hadn’t turned the page in over an hour.

“Have you known anyone who was called?” she finally asked. “Anyone who earned their redemption?”

He looked up from his book. “Two. Both of whom had served _much_ longer than I.”

“What happened to them? Did they ascend, bathed in heavenly light?” she asked with a nervous laugh. “Did a choir of angels appear?”

“I believe they were escorted by a Messenger.”

“Oh,” she said, recalling the being of unearthly beauty they had encountered the previous year. Fumbling in her pocket for a handkerchief, she dabbed at a bead of blood where she had chewed her lip. “I’m a spoiled, selfish beast,” she said in a small voice. “To have earned your redemption would be a marvellous thing, but we’ve had so little time!” she wailed. “I always knew you would be called before me, but—but I thought we would have centuries!” She buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

Undertaker’s arms were around her. “My love,” he murmured, smoothing her hair back from her forehead, “please calm yourself. We shall know in two days when I see the Council.”

But she was babbling hysterically, deaf to his words. “I was thinking. I’ll go back to collections. I’ll work double overtime every day. I’ll be the best, the most efficient agent in the history of the Dispatch. Anything I can do to shorten my time here, to earn my own redemption sooner, to take off a year or even a few days. Say you’ll wait for me! Say you won’t forget me!” she cried.

He grasped her by her shoulders. “Grell!” he shouted. “You are completely overwrought.” His voice softened and he folded her into his embrace. “I could no more forget you than I could my own name.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” she sniffled.

“Than I could forget to breathe?” he smiled.

“That’s even worse.” But she regained possession of herself and allowed him to lead her to their bedroom where they spent a sleepless night, holding each other close.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was almost impossible to repress a smile at the sight of the nervous students on the other side of the table. Had she and William looked that young? Oliver, her partner in instructing the trainees, didn’t bother to restrain his grin as they waited for the final pair.

“Who would have thought you two would be sitting here with me all these years later?” he chuckled. “Especially when I think of what a handful you were, Grell.”

“And who would have thought that William and I could be working together so peacefully?” she giggled. “Go on! Admit it. You were convinced we’d kill each other at some point.”

“Let’s just say we hoped that your differences would work to your advantage. Just like this last pair.”

“Are you sure about this pairing?” William worried. “They couldn’t be more unalike.”

“Or more like you two,” Oliver laughed as they walked in.

Grell studied the serious and solemn young woman in front of her carefully. “Martina,” she said, “you scored double A in ethics, A in the written exam and B in practical, giving you an overall grade of A. Well done.”

“And you, Peter,” Oliver said, “have a double A in practical and C in both written and ethics for an average of B.”

Martina adjusted her glasses. “May I speak frankly?”

“Of course,” Grell replied, just barely suppressing a fit of laughter at their scowling faces.

“I intend no disrespect to Mr Penney, but–”

“You are wondering if we made a mistake pairing you,” she interrupted.

“I’ll say,” the young man complained, running his hand through his spiky white-blond hair. “Miss, er Chol-mon-de-ley–”

“It’s pronounced Chumley,” she snapped.

“Yeah. However. Martina, here, and me—we just don’t see eye to eye. Like chalk and cheese, we are.”

“Which is why you must learn to work together,” she said. “You will be colleagues for a long time. You must overcome your personal differences in order to serve the Will of the Higher Up.” Was William’s mouth twitching? He had buried his face in his handkerchief. “Here is your subject,” she said, handing them a file. “You have a month. Good luck.”

As soon as the door closed behind them, she exploded into a fit of laughter, joined by Oliver. Even William was grinning broadly.

“Honestly Grell! And they say the age of miracles has passed.”

“Well, dear,” she sniffed, “we _did_ learn to work together, didn’t we? I just hope poor Peter doesn’t decide he’s fallen in love with her.”

“Poor Peter!” William snorted. “What about Martina? He’s the most troublesome trainee we’ve had since you—provoking fights, arguing with the instructors, getting up to all sorts of pranks.”

“At least the other students like him,” she retorted. She recalled her own student days and the dislike she had faced. “They don’t care for Martina one bit.”

“What should that matter? We aren’t brought into this existence to make friends. Martina is serious and dedicated and hard-working. She is going to make a fine agent.”

Grell cast a glance at Oliver. He had seen hundreds of trainees and had been the girl’s principal instructor. Did he share her misgivings? “Her inner world is without laughter,” she quietly. “How can she judge the Records according to the Will of the Higher Up unless she discovers it? That is why we paired her with Peter.”

“Grell is right,” Oliver said bluntly. “Why do you think we put you two together? Think about it. Neither of you would have had any difficulty passing the exam, but neither of you would be where you are today without the other.” He gathered up his papers and left.

They were silent for a long time. “I suppose he is correct,” William admitted. “Even without your help during the exam—you always kept me on my toes. You always judged the Records with great compassion and forced me to do the same. And, sometimes, you did make me laugh.”

“And you did steady me and tried to restrain my worst excesses,” she said, rubbing the side of her head ruefully. “I would never have become the reaper I did if I hadn’t been so desperate for your approval.” She laughed softly. “Can’t you picture Martina whacking Peter over the head with her Scythe if he acts out?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t become necessary. Perhaps their relationship need not be quite so dramatic. You’ve done a wonderful job guiding your students so far.”

“The students aren’t far removed from their human lives and the terrible choice they made. I know they don’t remember,” she added impatiently, “but I believe it influences their existence here. That’s why I insisted on viewing all of my own students’ Cinematic Records.”

“In spite of it being strictly against the rules.”

“I understand the need to keep reapers’ Records closely guarded,” she insisted. “But an instructor should know something about the students. If mine had been viewed . . . Think how differently things might have turned out,” she added, reflecting on her own incomplete Record and the events of the past year.

“You would have been culled or they would have decided to complete the extraction,” William stated. “You would be nothing like you are today. And,” he added softly, “I would regret that very much.”

XXXXXXXXXX

She had been tempted to ask William for some collections to keep her distracted during the day while Undertaker met with the Council, but had joined Ronald for lunch and retreated to her office in the training facility. Undertaker had remained determinedly cheerful, insisting that it was merely some piece of the bureaucratic trivia so beloved by the Dispatch. After her outburst two nights’ earlier, she had tried to agree with him, but, when she was alone, it occupied her thoughts fully.

Thank heavens the day had been spent reassuring anxious students about the exam, giving advice and encouragement and gentle reminders of their weak points. She consulted her watch impatiently. He should be back at the shop by now. It had been foggy when she left London that morning. Undertaker had promised that, if it held, they would venture out that evening for a rare walk together, shrouded by the heavy fog. She began to gather her papers together when she heard a tap on her door.

“Martina,” she called out. “Come in.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Agent Sutcliff,” she said, “but–”

“If you’ve come to complain about Peter, there’s nothing I can do for you. The teams are set.”

“No,” she said slowly. “It’s about my scores. I was wondering . . . ”

“Why you received only a B in the practical?”

“Yes!” she burst out. “You’ve been working with me. You said I’ve improved greatly.”

“You have.” How could she share her reservations with the girl? Would it be fair so soon before the exam? “You will continue to improve with experience,” she said carefully, “but don’t be too proud to learn from your partner. Peter has the highest marks in combat since my own.”

“Learn from Peter! But he’s hot-headed and reckless and he doesn’t like me.”

“My dear, I am hot-headed and reckless and William certainly didn’t care for me, but the only way we were able to pass the exam was to work together. Be patient with Peter,” she urged. “Be kind to him. You might discover one day that you need a friend and ally.”

She looked so frankly disbelieving that Grell’s heart sank. Was she naturally grave and solemn like William or was she empty and cold inside? Because, if it was the latter, she was unfit to be a reaper.

XXXXXXXXXX

When she portalled back into the shop an hour later, the sight of Undertaker drove all thoughts of Martina or any other student from her mind.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly into space. His normally pale skin was ashen and, for the first time since she had known him, he looked visibly shaken.

“Darling,” she said softly, putting her arms around him, “tell me. Quickly.”

“It’s not what we were thinking,” he said, grasping her hands as she sat next to him. “It’s far worse.”

“But how?”

He was silent for a long moment. She could hear the street sounds of an early London evening outside the shop and listened to the clock ticking on a shelf, counting out her last seconds of happiness.

“A rather obscure piece of regulation—a very ancient right has been invoked.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure how much I do,” he replied, “but, it would seem that, because I am no longer reaping, I am not earning my redemption.”

“Oh! Is that it? Well, dear,” she said, trying not to show her relief, “you’ll have to come back to the Dispatch. I know you don’t really want to and it’s a shame that you’ll have to give up the shop, but it won’t be that bad. We can look for a nice little house somewhere in the realm and–”

“You don’t understand. A Claim has been made and my soul is forfeit. I have failed to expiate my sin.”

“Forfeit to whom? To what?” she asked, trying to fight down a rising fear.

“The one who was cast down by the Higher Up. Sebastian’s True Master. I am to be consigned to his realm.”

“No!” she whispered. “No!”

“My dearest,” he said, clutching her hands convulsively, “I have been sentenced to eternity in hell.”


	2. Chapter 2

Grell managed not to wince as Undertaker’s nails dug into her hand. “But you are not the only reaper who no longer collects. What about Clarence? And you said there are others who are retired.” How was she keeping her voice so steady when her head was filled with deafening shrieks?

“Clarence manufactures Death Markers and blank Records. He still serves the Dispatch. As for the others . . . I don’t know.”

“But you have assisted in collections since you retired. Surely, that must count for something.”

“Not enough, apparently. The Council took no joy in telling me this. They _have_ explored every avenue. They did suggest I return to active duty, but the decision has been made. Alec has been in communication with one of the Messengers.”

“You can’t tell me this is the Will of the Higher Up!” she exclaimed.

“My dear, you are not saying anything I did not say myself, but these are matters far beyond our comprehension.”

“Well, they needn’t be,” she sniffed. She stood and tried to drag him to his feet. “We’re going to the Library. There must be some—exception. You’re so clever. You’ll find something. We’ll tear every book in the Library apart if we have to.”

“The Head Librarian was present. He has spent the past several days looking for a solution. They contacted other branches to see if such a situation has occurred elsewhere.”

“And?”

“Once. Many centuries ago in Germany. They could do nothing.” He sank his head into his hands. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I’m feeling a little unsettled. Could you make me a cup of tea?”

He looked dazed—completely at a loss. “Of—of course,” she managed to reply. “Would you care for a bite to eat?”

He shook his head. “No, thank you. Maybe later.”

She was shaking so badly that she spilled boiling water over hand while she attempted to fill the teapot. Biting her lip to restrain her cry of pain, she ran cold water over her burnt hand and wrapped it in a towel. “I was a bit clumsy,” she murmured, passing him a mug, grateful for an excuse for the tears running down her face.

Undertaker pressed his lips against her wrapped hand. “My poor dear. I’m sorry to be so muddled just now.”

“No,” Grell said softly. “It’s the shock. Drink your tea. We’ll—we’ll find a solution, some way of changing this. Take a little time.”

He smiled faintly. “Always so stubborn, so fierce. I have a week to put my affairs in order.”

“And then what? Will I wake to find you gone? Will you vanish in a puff of smoke? Will a great pit open to swallow you?” Her voice began to crack and she took a deep breath. She would not become hysterical. She would not give in to the awful, clawing fear and anger.

“I am to report to the Council. After that . . . I don’t know.” He drained his mug. “If you don’t mind, I have a guest in my workroom. I should attend to him. Once he is gone tomorrow, I will have to start closing up shop.”

She nodded.

“And I shall pay a call on the earl and Sebastian tomorrow. They need to know that my services will no longer be available.” He caressed her hair. “Go to the realm tomorrow. Help and care for your students. You will find that work can be a great consolation.”

How could he be so calm, so accepting of this travesty?

He seemed to read her thoughts. “I beg you, Grell, do not allow yourself false hope that this can be avoided. This is a ruling from the very Highest and cannot be defied or changed.”

“But you took me into the Presence of the Higher Up last year. You were successful in restoring my life. Can we not–”

He shook his head. “I was not asking on my own behalf. Nor was I attempting to tamper with the balance of power. To thwart the Dark One might unleash horror we cannot imagine.”

“But why you?” she cried, clutching the front of his robes.

He gently caught her hands in his. “Why not me? It is true that I have failed to atone for my sin. Why should I not be forced to pay the price?”

He was unreachable, as implacable as the beings who had commanded this monstrous thing. But his pale lips quivered very slightly when he spoke. She could not add to his turmoil by giving free rein to the fury and fear that hammered at her.

“Very well,” she said shakily. “You see to your guest and, when you’ve cleaned up, we’ll have supper.”

“And we’ll go for that walk.”

Grell mindlessly set the table and stared blankly into the pantry cupboard for a long time before pulling down a crock of Gentleman’s Relish. Undertaker had dug a vegetable bed for her only weeks’ earlier. She had been anxiously nursing her seedlings while dreaming of putting up preserves later this year. He had reluctantly agreed to visit the shops in the realm with her to choose new fabric for curtains and to recover their battered armchairs. Hysterical laughter bubbled forth—perhaps he viewed his fate as a rescue from one far worse.

They were supposed to have centuries! Not the pitiably short time they had been given—a little more than year. They sat together, pushed the food around on their plates and pretended they had eaten.

“The fog has lifted,” she said, carrying their still-full plates from the table. “I guess we’ll have to stay in.”

“I would like to get out for a short while,” Undertaker replied, “and I don’t think we really need worry about discretion any longer.”

Grell nodded and fetched her coat. He was right. She had tried to be careful and stayed in the back as much as possible. Their nearest neighbours were accustomed to Undertaker’s odd assortment of visitors, but it could make no difference. Soon, he would be gone; they would both be gone.

The streets were illuminated by the soft yellow light of the gaslights. That spring had been cold and wet on the heels of a bitter winter and tremendous snowstorm in March, but the May evening was clear and the waxing moon could be seen hovering overhead. A few passers-by glanced at them, Grell noticed; they were an unconventional pair, but most hurried on, eager to return home or begin their evening revels.

Undertaker stopped and took Grell’s arm. “Come,” he murmured, gesturing above.

She followed him to the rooftop, to speed at his side, to lose herself in the exhilaration of flying through the night. How did he keep his hat from flying away, she wondered for an instant as they came to rest atop the House of Commons.

He put his arm around her. “I love this city,” he said quietly, “and I love the people. From the bootblacks and the beggars, the shopkeepers and streetwalkers to the ridiculous dandies and nobles. I’ve seen war and famine, plague and fire, but the people and this city always rise up again. Promise me you’ll care for them when I’m gone, that you’ll teach your students to do the same.”

Grell followed his gaze. Saw the soaring Gothic turrets of Westminster, the bobbing craft on the inky black of the Thames, spanned by many bridges and the great dome of St Paul’s.

“I saw the city burn and rise from the ashes. I saw Wat Tyler lead the peasants across London Bridge to face the king. I saw Elizabeth ride in triumph after the defeat of Spain and, for the past years, I’ve cared for their dead.”

She leaned her head wordlessly against his shoulder, allowing him to take farewell of the great dirty, noisy city spread out before them.

“That’s why you were the finest reaper in the history of the Dispatch,” she said softly. “Because you cared, because you treated every soul with compassion, because you oversaw their final journey with love.” She wound her arms around his neck. “Darling, I swear I won’t make this any harder for you than it already is. You taught me there is no currency more precious than laughter. We must make our last days as rich as possible.”

“Then I will be able to leave in peace.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Once she had made her decision, Grell was invested with a curious calm that allowed her to sleep through the night and see Undertaker off the following morning with a smile. Mindful of his wish that she continue her work, she went to her office after he left. Memories washed over her as she caught sight of Peter in the practice field, leaping from wall to wall, brandishing his trainee Scythe. They weren’t supposed to have favourites, but she couldn’t help it. Peter had made her laugh and clutch her hair in frustration throughout the course. More than once, she had been tempted to whack him across the side of his head with her Death Scythe.

She wasn’t alone. William stood beside her while she watched from her window.

“He’s going to be an interesting addition to the Dispatch after graduation,” he chuckled.

“Well, dear,” she grinned, “everyone complains the office is terribly dull since I left. Be patient with him. He has a very soft heart under all that energy and aggression. He desperately wants to succeed. He pretends to be much tougher than he really is.”

“He is fortunate in his teacher,” William said with a smile, taking a seat opposite her desk. “But I’m still worried that you paired him with Martina. What if they cannot work together?”

Something in his expression sent a tickle of unease up her spine. She tried to shake it off. William had urged the recruitment of female trainees. Could she share her reservations concerning Martina with him?

“She’s worked harder than any student this year,” he continued. “It would be a crime if–”

“If she failed because she can’t work with her partner?” Grell interrupted. “If that’s the case, she deserves to fail. Anyhow,” she added with a nervous laugh, “if you and I managed, anyone should be able to.”

William flushed and adjusted his glasses. “Quite. I came today for two reasons,” he said. “The new intake have begun to arrive. I was hoping you would spend some time reviewing their files to decide which might be suitable for training.”

“You’re trusting _me_ to help select candidates? Don’t be surprised if you end out with the oddest class in the history of the Dispatch.”

“Which is what we need,” he said urgently. “The world is changing at a pace we can’t begin to understand. The Council and Senior Management talk of the need to enlarge, but they are too far removed from the human world now.” He sighed. “We are about to enter into a century of warfare on a scale that has never been seen. The seeds have already been planted in Germany. The young Kaiser . . . And the Empire is so vast, but we have not one single agent to represent the many people under its rule.”

“You want me to recommend training recruits from the colonies? From India or Africa? Management would have a fit.”

“No doubt, but you are my greatest argument in its favour.”

“I!” she exclaimed. “How?”

“You are singular and, er—different from every other agent we have. You should not have been selected; you should have been culled during training. There were many occasions when you should have been shipped off to the Asylum. But you prevailed! You succeeded to become one of our most skilled and fearless agents.” He leaned across the desk. “I need someone who has no fear of the authorities, who will not hesitate to fight for what is best for the Dispatch. You were restored to us by the Higher Up last year for this purpose, I believe.”

“To be a thorn in the side of Management while you quietly get your way?” she grinned. “To suggest that we train an entire regiment of Zulu warriors while you carefully introduce a recruit from the Raj?”

“I need an ally, Grell. I need a friend. I need _you_.”

“Why William,” she said, fighting back sudden tears, “that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Quite,” he murmured. “And my other reason for being here . . . I need a tremendous favour. I’m short a man right now and I have a collection that could prove—difficult. Ronald is completely occupied with the latest influenza epidemic and this isn’t a job for a junior agent.”

Grell leafed through the file. “Oh dear,” she muttered. Sitting back in her chair, she bared her teeth. “And they called Jack the Ripper a monster.” She was already tingling in anticipation of the blood she would spill. “At least I didn’t prey on children.”

William ignored that statement. “His Record will make dreadful viewing, but such as him don’t give up their souls easily. It should provide you with a real workout—a distraction.”

She looked sharply at him. “You know?”

He nodded. “I’m terribly sorry, Grell.”

“Aren’t we all,” she said in a brittle voice. “Pity this fellow gets to die so quickly.”

“It does seem a little unfair that he should fall down the stairs and break his neck instantly, considering the misery he caused. He’s scheduled to die in two hours.” He caught her gaze. “You might want to arrive a little early.”

“I just might,” she replied, her lips curling into a smile.

“Try not to make too much of a mess. And Grell . . . ” He covered her hand with his own. “If you need me in the next weeks, if there is anything I can do, don’t hesitate to call on me.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Of course, the collection had to be in Whitechapel. Grell wondered if that was her true punishment. To be forced to revisit the alleys she had prowled at Madam Red’s side, to stand near the spot she had cut her down, to feel again the white-hot rage and heartbreak at the realization that Angelina had never loved her. Here were the rooftops where she had battled with Sebastian, here was where she had driven her Death Scythe into Annie Chapman and here was the street where William had dragged her away by her hair.

If only, just once, William had spoken to her as he had today, if he had treated her as a comrade or rebuffed her initial advances more kindly, how different things might have been. Would she have allied herself with Madam Red? Would she have poured her anger and frustration into the wanton spilling of blood? Would she have desperately tried to pierce his indifference until she was trapped in a persona that was repellent to him and almost everyone she worked with?

She picked her way up the stairs, dodging piles of refuse and other things that didn’t bear thinking of. Maybe it was fitting that he should slip in a pile of shit, she thought with a mordant chuckle, but what she had planned for him was far more interesting. Wrinkling her nose at the stench, she rapped at a door just off the second floor landing.

He was smaller and more frail-looking than she had expected, but his victims had been even smaller and weaker. She lounged against the doorframe. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr Bill Norton?” she asked in her plummiest, snootiest tone.

He peered at her through straggling locks of yellowish-grey hair. “Who wants to know?”

Grell shoved him into the room and shut the door quickly behind her. “My name is Grell Sutcliff,” she said with a grin, “but that won’t mean anything to you. But, perhaps, the name Rachel Gold might? Or Caroline Nichols? How about Mary O’Leary or Rosemary Martin, to name a few?”

His watery blue eyes widened in shock, but he snatched up a cudgel and brandished it. “You! Get out! You can’t just walk in here.”

“Oh! But I can!” Grell plucked the weapon from his grasp and easily broke it in two. “I’ve come to take you away.”

He looked frightened for an instant. “You’re not a Peeler,” he insisted.

“No, I’m not,” she laughed. “I’m a Grim Reaper and I’m very happy to say that it is time for you to die.”

He tried to rush past her, but she caught him by the neck and squeezed. His sour breath nearly choked her, but he went limp in a moment. Binding and gagging him took only a few seconds. It wouldn’t be much of a workout, she grumbled to herself, but time was of the essence. She wasn’t really worried that they would be heard over the racket of the doss house, but better safe than sorry, she giggled.

She roused him with a sharp kick. “I would really like to play with you for a long time,” she said, “but you are scheduled to die quite soon. How long did those girls live? What sort of games did you play with them?”

He struggled against his restraints. She could hear his cries, muffled by the gag.

“Why don’t we play a little game?” she said, kneeling beside him. “You must remember this one.” She rolled him onto his stomach and took hold of his hand, bound behind him. “This little piggy went to market,” she said softly, wiggling his little finger before snapping it. “This little piggy stayed home.” She broke his ring finger. “This little piggy had roast beef.” Snap went his middle finger. “And this little piggy had none.” She bent his index finger until the bone gave way. “And this little piggy went wee wee wee all the way home,” she giggled as she wrenched his thumb from its socket.

“Wasn’t that fun?” she cried. “Shall we do it again?” And she repeated the process on his other hand before grabbing his arms and, with a sudden jerk, dislocated both of his shoulders. She untied his hands and shoved him onto his back, casting about for a weapon. Picking up the broken cudgel, Grell smashed it into both of his kneecaps with as much force as she could muster.

She stood over him, laughing. “You look like a fish out of water, flopping about there on the floor, but you’re just a little too pale for my liking.” She pulled off the gag and swung again, breaking his jaw and splintering his teeth. “That’s much better,” she crooned as the blood began to flow from his mouth and nose.

“Now,” she said, summoning her Death Scythe while she slowly circled his prone figure, “I could use this to slice you in half as easily as a knife goes through butter, but what would be the fun in that?”

She began to sing under her breath:

“‘Wot cher!’ all the neighbours cried,

‘Who you gonna meet, Bill?

Have yer bought the street, Bill?’”

Kicking him in the ribs, she asked, “Do you know this one? It’s ever so jolly. It’s a huge hit in the music halls right now.” Punctuating every word with another kick to his ribs, his groin and his head, she finished the verse.

“Laugh! I thought I should 'ave died

Knock'd 'em in the Old Kent Road!”

She hadn’t made _too_ much of a mess yet. “You know,” she confided, “I wasn’t entirely frank when I introduced myself. I am actually quite well known in these parts. What a shame no one will know that you have joined the ranks of the victims of Jack the Ripper.” Laughing wildly, she brought her Death Scythe to life and plunged it into his bowels.

For just a moment, the awful, raucous shrieking that wouldn’t leave her head since Undertaker had returned the day before quieted as she gloried in the sight of his blood and entrails spilling out, delighted at the sound of his strangled cries and drowned out his last gurgling moans with her own squeals of glee.

His Record unspooled, lashing out at her. Shrieking with laughter, she stood and allowed it to coil around her body, gasping with twisted pleasure as it wound more tightly. But this was not the time for games. She deftly cut herself free and grimly viewed the Record until she saw what she wanted. The Ripper had taken a few gruesome souvenirs—Angelina had insisted. Later, Undertaker had told her that this was a frequent occurrence when crimes of this nature were committed.

Once the Record was complete and captured, Grell pried up a loose floorboard and retrieved a box. Locks of hair, innumerable hair ribbons, a soiled rag doll and a pile of yellowed newspaper clippings. Only a few lines in most cases—a missing child from the teeming streets of Whitechapel did not arouse much sympathy. Where were Sebastian and the rest of his kind when these victims cried out? Or were the souls of London’s most wretched of as little interest to him as they were to the rest of the population?

She left the box on the bed. The police wouldn’t waste too much time looking for this killer, she was convinced and, with a final kick at the body on the floor, she slipped from the room. On the street, she glanced about quickly, leapt to the roof and sped back to Undertaker’s.

The shop was still empty. Gratefully, she stripped off her clothes and washed up. She was still flushed and panting with excitement, her eyes glittering as she donned a red silk wrapper. The bell over the shop door jingled and she called out, “Back here, darling.”

Undertaker raked her with a knowing gaze. “What have you been up to?”

“Nothing I shouldn’t have been,” Grell temporized. “William asked me to take care of a collection for him.”

“It seems to have been one very much to your taste,” he commented.

“You must have heard of the Beast of Buckle Street.”

“The little girls who went missing? I was always surprised that the earl was never asked to investigate.”

“It won’t be necessary now,” she grinned and allowed her robe to fall open. “Come here, darling.”

He tossed aside his hat and sash and scooped her into his arms to lay her on the bed. “You really are a savage little creature,” he laughed softly, pressing kisses against her collar bone.

Grell caught his chin between her fingers to gaze into his eyes and pushed his hair back with her other hand. “And you’ve never tried to reform or change me,” she said. “You love me as I am. Another reason for me to love you beyond all measure.”

It was true, she thought in a haze of pleasure while his lips caressed her flesh. He had gently guided her and taught her compassion and tenderness, made her long to be worthy of him, to be her best self, but had placed no expectations or strictures upon her and, in his unstinting love, made her lovable. But her thoughts were blotted out as she gave herself over to the joy of his skilled lovemaking.

He had discarded his robes and boots and knelt between her spread legs. Shamelessly, she offered herself to him, urging him on with soft cries, squirming with delight when he pulled her legs over his shoulders and licked at the crease between her buttocks. She shivered as his hair brushed against her skin and moaned when his fingers sought and found her centre and tenderly made her ready to receive him.

Pulling away, she pushed him onto his back to trace a trail of kisses across his chest. Her lips found and outlined the ridged scars that marked his torso and she moved down the bed. He gasped when she delicately nipped at his inner thighs and groaned when her tongue flickered out to lick deliberately at his length. She swallowed him greedily, tasting the salt of the drops that leaked from his arousal, inhaling his scent—the wood he carved into caskets and the slight chemical tang of his workshop and knew she was trying to press every sensation, no matter how small, into her memory as talisman when he was gone.

Grell clambered up the bed to straddle him, anointing him with the oil he passed over to her and sank slowly down. Setting a slow, dreamlike rhythm, she began to move. He wrapped his hand around her and matched her pace while she gathered the pleasure into the centre of her being and fixed her eyes on his beautiful, scarred face. His passion was rising to meet hers, she could tell, but he allowed her to maintain control, to catch at the rapture the bore her higher and higher until she cried out and spilled into his hand.

She slumped over him for a moment and began to move again, taking his face between her hands, tracing his scars and outlining his lips with her thumb. Undertaker manoeuvred himself until he was sitting up and gathered her into his arms. Their silver and red hair mingled, veiling their bodies while he held her close. They rose and fell easily together. She could feel his breath against her neck and his teeth grazing her flesh and she tangled her fingers into his hair, pressing herself closer. His soft groans echoed in her head, he filled her completely, pulsing and throbbing in her core and held her tightly as he gave a long sigh and achieved completion.

Her face wet with tears, she buried her head against his chest as they fell back onto the bed. “I’m sorry, darling,” she whispered, “I’m trying not to weep and wail these next few days, but it’s so unfair!”

He held her close and stroked her hair. She could feel the soothing scratch of his fingernails against her scalp. “My dearest wild rose,” he murmured, “my dear, sweet, fierce beloved—of course you are going to feel anger and grief. I feel the same.”

She raised herself on her elbow to peer into his face. “Are you frightened?”

He nodded slowly. “Mostly I am regretful that we have had so little time together. I regret that the work I’ve done for the past century is not considered worthy of my redemption, that I must leave this city and you. And I deeply regret that I must leave the earl in the hands of Sebastian. I had always hoped the day might come . . . ”

Grell sighed and rose from the bed to disappear into the water closet. Undertaker had never told her fully of the ties that bound him to the Phantomhives, she thought, cleaning herself up quickly, but they were powerful and she knew he grieved that he had failed the late earl in watching out for Ciel’s welfare. She brushed her hair and dressed, simply pulling on her trousers and shirt, and joined Undertaker in their sitting room, where he was sipping a cup of tea.

“I made a fresh pot.”

“You do think a cup of tea is the cure for all evils, don’t you?” she chuckled.

“If more people took the time to brew a pot and sit down with a cup, there would be considerably less unrest in this world,” he said with a smile. “So, you reaped the Beast of Buckle Street today. Odd how he was never much more than a whisper.”

“His victims were never found,” she said, pouring herself a cup and taking a seat opposite him. “Unlike Jack the Ripper’s and they were of the weakest and most defenceless of this city. Their disappearances didn’t rate more than a line or two in the newspapers. Many were never noticed, except by their families.”

“His Cinematic Record must have been quite horrifying.”

“It was. And you love the people of this city!” she said in disgust.

“Someone has to,” he replied simply.

She stared at him over the rim of her teacup. What a travesty! To take him, who cared for humans in all their weaknesses and to leave those who had brought death and destruction. _Like her_.

“Did you see the brat today?” she asked.

His normally inscrutable expression wavered. Deep sadness flickered across his features. “I did. They are in London on business for a few days.”

“And how did he react to your news?”

“He showed more real grief than I believed him capable of. It does me good to know that Sebastian has not killed everything fine in him—everything that he had from his father.”

“And Sebastian? Was he there?”

“He was. He seemed distressed that I would no longer be able to be of assistance.” This was delivered with a sardonic chuckle. “Otherwise, he looked rather amused by the whole affair.”

“He would,” she snorted. “You should have told him you hoped he would offer comfort to your grieving widow. Just to see the horror on his face.”

“There are some things we need to discuss. Everything I have is to be yours, aside from a few keepsakes.” He fingered his mourning lockets thoughtfully. “I leased this shop from Vincent Phantomhive for a token sum in perpetuity. The lease will become yours. The earl has agreed that one of his men of business will oversee the property and any income will be held for you.”

“But I have no use for it!”

“Nevertheless, it will be yours. All you need do is call upon him and the funds will be released. And when I’m gone, would you watch out for him? For my sake?”

“Of course, darling. For your sake. And Angelina’s,” she added softly. “If I ever see a means of breaching the contract, I will use it.”

“Thank you,” he said. “There is very little more for me to settle here. I would like to pay a visit to Clarence tomorrow.” He pulled a pouch from his pocket. “There’s five guineas in here. Would you see that Mrs Browne gets it?” he asked, referring to the local woman who cleaned for him.

She nodded. “I’m sure they will allow me leave for the next few days.”

“Then I will meet you at your flat in the realm tomorrow. We will have supper at The Club. Make yourself beautiful, so that I am the envy of every man there. And when we return here the following day, I shall share with you the receipt for my biscuits that you’ve been plaguing me for since last year.”

“Beast,” she giggled.

“And then we shall spend the next days together doing entirely ordinary things—drinking tea, eating meals and reading in this room. Didn’t you say on Valentine’s Day that true love is found in the everyday? That is how we shall celebrate and honour our love—by spending our final days enjoying the peace and contentment you have given me.”

“Gracious,” Grell exclaimed in a voice that shook only a little, “to think that _I_ could bring peace to anyone. May I come with you when you go to the Council? I promise not to make a scene.”

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “I would prefer to remember you with your cheeks stained pink with laughter.”

She sprang from her chair to crouch at his feet and lay her head in his lap. “I’ll see you off with a smile, I promise. I’ll pay Charon’s toll with the currency you love best.”

XXXXXXXXXX

It should be harder to gain access to the Senior Shinigami, Grell thought as her footsteps echoed down an endless corridor of the Administration Building. But so few knew of their existence or purpose. She had been ignorant until the previous year when Undertaker had told her of the select few, older even than he, who functioned as a means of communication between the Higher Up and the realm.

She caught a glimpse of a massive figure turning a corner, blurry and indistinct, but lit from within. A Messenger! Humans called them angels, but they bore little resemblance to their representation in the human world and were nothing like the creature that had terrorized London two years earlier. According to Undertaker, they shared the Will of the Higher Up with the Seniors. He had also said that they were, on the whole, quite insufferable, she recalled with a grin.

Alec’s office was a small, windowless cubicle at the end of the hall. Not quite what one would expect for a being who had stood in the Presence and shared regular conversation with the Heavenly Host. His desk was piled high with papers; more spewed out of half-closed drawers of the filing cabinets and haphazard stacks of bulging files littered the floor. Alec himself was deceptively ordinary looking. In spite of his great age, he appeared only a few years older than William, but his eyes were extraordinary. More so than Undertaker’s, luminous and unfathomable, they glowed with wisdom, humour and tenderness.

“Grell,” he said looking up at her entrance, “I am so sorry, but there is nothing I can do.”

He was sincere, she knew. He had used his influence to help regain her lost Cinematic Record the year before. He had even involved a Messenger in her case. Every soul was precious to him; the pain he felt at forfeiting even one to the Dark Power was evident on his face.

“I know you are,” she said gently, “but I don’t understand! Undertaker served the Dispatch honourably for centuries. His record in collecting souls is unparalleled. He does good and valuable work today—aiding in bringing criminals to justice and treating the dead with compassion. He cares about humans—in spite of their follies and stupidities and ugliness.”

“Which makes his soul all the more valuable to the Fallen One,” he sighed. “The soul of a weakling who fell prey to temptation is meaningless. Undertaker was a formidable adversary for centuries. His soul is priceless.”

Grell slapped her hands down on his desk, sending papers flying. “Then it should be fought for!” she exclaimed. “We should be exploring every avenue, looking for any chance, any means of thwarting this—this travesty! There must be some exception!”

He remained silent for a long moment before retrieving a bundle of paper from a pile on the floor next to him. “There is, but he refused to consider it.”

XXXXXXXXXX

How did they manage to make such a mess? No wonder they rarely prepared a meal together, Grell reflected, wiping up spilled sugar and flour. Of course, Undertaker’s insistence on standing close behind her, guiding her hands while she mixed hadn’t helped any more than her own urge to start flicking flour at him. She giggled, recalling his hand snaking out from behind her to steal a lump of dough and nibble at it, which had led to her smacking his hand away, which had led to him whacking her on the rump, which had led to . . .

At least a tray of freshly baked biscuits rested on the table, ready to fill the jar. Retrieving her flour-covered waistcoat from the floor, she shook it out. She was making good on her promise to fill these days with joy. They had dined sumptuously in the realm the night before and drawn every eye to their table as she shrieked with laughter while he related scandalous tales about the Council members and Senior Management seated nearby.

And when she saw him looking pensive just as the biscuits had finally made it into the oven, she seized her opportunity.

“Darling, you mustn’t think that you have to spend every single moment with me. If there are some places you would prefer to visit on your own, I understand.”

“Would you mind?”

“Not at all,” she insisted. “Go for a walk. Get out of here for a couple of hours. It’s a lovely day. Take a bit of time for yourself.”

“There are a few places . . . ”

“Then shoo! And when you come back, we’ll have tea and you can tell me how my biscuits measure up to yours.”

As soon as she had finished sweeping the floor, she retreated to the bedroom and dug her old brown coat out of the wardrobe. Rummaging in the bureau, she found the plain, round spectacles and red hair ribbon. She drew a comb through her hair until it faded to a mousy brown and tied it back, staring into the mirror until the Madam Red’s meek, inept little butler looked back at her.

The illusion wasn’t that complete or firm, but it would serve her purpose, she thought, knocking at the tradesman’s entrance of the Phantomhive townhouse.

Smiling at the blond boy with a straw hat slung around his neck, she said, “Hello Finny. Do you remember me?”

“Why Mr Grell! It’s been an age!”

“It has indeed,” she tittered nervously, following him into the scullery. “How are you? And Mey-Rin and Baldroy?” she added at the sound of a loud crash and exclamation from nearby.

“We’re grand!” he beamed.

“And how is dear Sebastian? Is he available?”

“He’s polishing the silver in the strong room.”

“Then I’ll just pop in and say hello. I couldn’t let a trip to London pass without seeing dearest Sebastian. He was so kind and helpful to me when I used to visit you,” she simpered.

“Sebastian!” Finny called, dragging her by her hand to a small room off the scullery. “Look who’s come visiting!”

Grell nearly choked with laughter as Sebastian’s perfect control slipped for an instant and the silver candlestick he was polishing fell from his hands. “Dearest Sebastian!” she cried, running over to clasp his hands. “How wonderful to see you again.”

“I’ll tell the others you’re here,” Finny said.

“I’m sorry, I only have a moment, but do give my love to Mey-Rin and Bard,” she said, gently nudging him out of the room and closing the door.

Sebastian set his polishing cloth down. “What is the meaning of this extraordinary garb, Grell?”

“It seemed the easiest method of gaining entry. I could simply materialize in your quarters tonight,” she grinned.

“I think I prefer this. Why are you here?” he asked.

“I need your help. You know about Undertaker?”

Something flickered across his face. Sympathy? Regret? “It is distressing news indeed,” he said, “but if you are asking me to intervene on his behalf–”

“I am not,” she interrupted. “Are you familiar with Euripides?” She produced a battered volume from her pocket.

Sebastian glanced at the title and raised an eyebrow. “You believe this is possible?”

“I have been assured that it is, but I’m not quite sure how to proceed. Can you assist me?”

He was silent for a moment and held her gaze steadily. For the first time, she saw genuine admiration in his expression. “Very well. Meet me tonight near the new isolation hospital by Salmon’s Brook.”

XXXXXXXXXX

She would have liked another day, but, perhaps, it was for the best. How long could she dissemble before him? How long before he divined her purpose?

But her absolute certainty in her choice made it easier than she had expected to greet him affectionately, tease him and laugh with him throughout the rest of the day. To curl up in a chair in the sitting room and let him read in comfortable silence. To allow him to clasp her in his arms after they had retired and respond to his tender lovemaking with equal passion.

It hadn’t even been that difficult to slip from their bed, dress silently and take a final lingering look at his face before leaving the letters she had written earlier next to the teapot. She wavered for a second when the door leading to the garden in the back shut with a quiet click. The moon was almost full to illuminate the tiny space. Growing up the wall were the vines of Undertaker’s wild rose bush. It was too early for them to bloom, yet, somehow, he always managed to find one. Her throat closed for an instant, recalling him tucking one in her hair while they shared their first meal.

She had been so happy in this shabby, dusty little shop and, with a glance of farewell, she leapt to the roof and made her way north.

The hospital was nothing more that a group of temporary, ramshackle iron structures yet. The tiny brook wound a ribbon of silver in the moonlight. Sebastian was waiting near a small copse at the edge of the property.

“There’s an entry _here_?” she asked with a nervous laugh.

“The locals call this spot World’s End. There’s a reason.”

“I see,” she murmured.

“Are you afraid?”

“Should I be?” Grell replied. She peered up into his face. “Will I remember?” she asked softly. “Will I remember the things I’ve done . . . the places . . . the people? Will I forget Ronald or William or even you, Bassy? Will I remember him?”

Sebastian picked a twig off her shoulder. “You will.”

“Then I am not frightened.”

He nodded and began to walk into the stand of trees, following a barely discernable path. The growth was sparse, but the trail they followed seemed to wind endlessly through it as the trees faded into an impenetrable blackness. Sebastian’s eyes gleamed red in the darkness.

“All you need do is keep walking,” he said.

Grell traced his lapel in a well-remembered gesture. “Would you like me to pass on your regards to anyone when I arrive? Your mother? Brothers or sisters, perhaps?” she giggled.

He shook his head. “No one.”

“Then farewell, dearest Bassy!” she cried, raising her hand to extend her thumb, index and littlest finger. Her tongue poked out for a second. “The crimson cord of destiny that has bound us these years has finally played out!” And with a laugh, she walked unflinchingly into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Grell was singing, Knocked 'Em in the Old Kent Road, was a popular music hall song in the 1890's. You can watch Fozzie Bear and the Muppets perform it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ohi_8ThTPTg).
> 
> World's End was a piece of wasteland in north London a mile or two from where my father grew up. In 1892, a hospital for infectious diseases was built on the site. It is currently a golf course.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grell, the dog, made her first appearance in [Blessings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5523752).

Undertaker knew the shop was empty when he woke. He couldn’t hear the click of Grell’s heels on the floor or the sound of her humming under her breath in the kitchen. Only a faint trace of her favourite rose fragrance remained. He had washed and dressed quickly and made his way to the kitchen to brew a pot of tea and wait for her return when he spotted the letter.

_My darling,_

_You returned my life and soul to me last year. I gladly trade mine for yours today._

_How could you think I would not discover a means of preserving your existence? Your compassion and love for humans in their darkest hours will be of more importance in the years to come than ever before._

_Keep an eye on Ronald and drop in on William sometimes to plague him on my behalf. Make him laugh._

_You gave me over a year of perfect happiness, which this can scarcely repay, and, when you think of me, know that I left this world laughing._

_Grell_

An ancient copy of Euripides’ _Alcestis_ rested on the table. He thumbed thoughtfully through the yellowed pages. He had been vaguely aware of the Greek myth of King Admetus, who had been promised a chance to cheat death if he could persuade someone to take his place, but hadn’t known of the grain of truth in the legend until his meeting with the Council. But Alcestis had been returned to her husband by the mightiest of all heroes after defeating the god of the Underworld in single combat. He was no Heracles, but he had begged for Grell’s life at the steps of the Seat of the Higher Up last year. The Lord of the Underworld held no fear for him.

XXXXXXXXXX

“I suppose you’re looking for some means of going after her,” William sighed.

“Very astute of you, my dear William,” Undertaker chuckled.

He had slit open the envelope Undertaker handed to him and read the enclosed letter, his normally stoic facade slipping for a moment. “Something in my eye,” he muttered. “How can I help you?”

“Grell has obviously gone to Sebastian. Who else could have guided her?”

William smiled faintly. “Knowing Grell, I’d say that she would find some way to storm the Underworld if she had to tear the fabric of existence apart to do it. The Dark One might be glad to get rid of her. Or, if the rest of the demons there resemble Michaelis, she might not want to leave.”

It took Undertaker a moment to realize that William was making a joke. He had changed in the past year. Was it a reflection of the changes in Grell? Their relationship was far more complex than either understood.

“I was hoping you and Ronald would accompany me to the Phantomhive townhouse—in case Sebastian needs to be persuaded.”

“May I make a suggestion as to a means of persuasion?”

He burst out laughing when William finished speaking. “I think you’ve been spending too much time with Grell. That sounds like something she would have thought of.”

“Let’s just say that I rather relish the idea of putting the demon at a disadvantage.”

XXXXXXXXXX

“The young master’s got a visitor,” the redheaded maid with impossibly thick glasses told Undertaker when she answered the door.

“We really need to speak to Sebastian,” he replied. “Is he available?”

“He stepped out. Maybe you’d better come in.”

William and Ronald followed Undertaker and the maid through the lavish entry hall of the Phantomhive townhouse to a drawing room where they found Ciel perched awkwardly on a couch holding up a stereoscope while a blonde girl peered into it.

“See Lizzie. No! Look with both eyes. It’s Her Majesty.”

“Oh Ciel! How clever! It’s like she’s right in front of me.”

He dropped the instrument and jumped to his feet. “Undertaker! William! And Ronald! What are you doing here?”

“Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but it is necessary that we have a word with Sebastian.”

“Er, he had to go out for a bit,” he said with a faint smile.

Suddenly, a half-grown puppy with a great deal of silky reddish fur burst into the room, followed by Finny. “I’m sorry, my lord, my lady, she got away. Soon as Mey-Rin answered the door she ran out of the kitchen.”

“Oh Grellie! You naughty girl!” Lizzie exclaimed, flinging her arms around the dog and nuzzling the top of her head. “You shouldn’t be in here. Sebastian will be so cross. He said you had to stay in the kitchen after you knocked over those Meissen figurines last time.”

“Sebastian won’t mind,” Ciel smirked. “He _loves_ Grell.”

“Of course he does,” she cooed. “As soon as we arrived, he practically ran out of the house, saying he was going to find some of her favourite treats.”

Undertaker almost choked with laughter as the dog struggled from Lizzie’s embrace to run across the room and attempt to scrabble up William’s legs. “That dog is so appropriately named,” he chuckled. “Perhaps, we could have a word in private?” he suggested when a tiny, grey kitten peeked out from Ronald’s coat pocket and Lizzie gave an ear-piercing squeal.

“I—I did not expect to see you again,” Ciel said when they were alone in an adjoining study.

Undertaker looked around the richly appointed room. Saw the massive chair that dwarfed the boy sitting in it and the piles of documents on the desk. He had failed Vincent; his son had lost his childhood, his innocence . . . everything. One day he would make amends.

“There has been a change in my situation,” he said. “Grell discovered that I could remain if someone were to take my place. She was gone when I woke this morning.”

“Grell willingly went to hell in your place!”

“She did.”

“And you want Sebastian to fetch her back?”

“Not quite. I don’t believe Sebastian’s True Master would relinquish her that easily. I will retrieve her, but I need him to guide me to that realm. I am quite sure it was he who showed Grell the way.”

“Shall I order him to help you?”

“That may not be necessary. I brought substantial reinforcements,” he said with a grin.

Ciel’s blue eye glimmered with laughter for an instant. “I noticed.” He fell silent and spent several minutes gazing at Undertaker before speaking again. “I am—glad that you are still with us,” he finally said. “I was grieved by your news when we last spoke.”

“This affair is by no means settled,” he replied. “We do not know what price may be exacted for Grell’s return.” But he felt a flush of warmth. The boy was not completely lost. Somewhere under that cool, stoic facade, some trace of Vincent’s son, Claudia’s grandson remained. “You were very kind to Grell the last time you met. She was more touched than she would admit.”

“A few flowers,” he said dismissively. “It was nothing.”

“It was far more than that.” Grell had tucked the roses away in a little box once they faded. She still insisted on referring to him as the brat, but he knew she was nursing a small spurt of tenderness for the boy. “We should rejoin the others.”

He couldn’t have imagined a more unlikely sight in the drawing room if he had tried. William was sitting bolt upright in a chair with the puppy’s head rested on his knees, her eyes gazing adoringly up at him. Ronald and Lizzie sat on the sofa, their legs stretched out before them, engaged in a companionable conversation.

“I do like your shoes,” she exclaimed. “They’re not very cute, but they’re so different from everyone else’s.”

“Thank you, milady,” he replied. “I like a bit of style.”

“I do like pretty shoes,” she sighed, glancing down with dissatisfaction at her plain, childish slippers.

“But that would be such a waste, milady,” Ronald insisted. “Who would be looking at your feet when they could be looking at your pretty face and lovely golden curls?”

“Is he alway like that?” Ciel asked when Lizzie dissolved into delighted giggles.

“Unfortunately, yes,” William said, rolling his eyes.

And Sebastian sat cross-legged on the floor, gazing besottedly at the kitten. “Such innocence, yet so fierce,” he murmured as it bit his forefinger. “Such tiny needle-like teeth.”

“Sebastian,” Ciel said softly.

“Yes, my lord,” he replied absently.

“I need you to guide Undertaker to wherever you took his—friend last night,” he said with a glance at Lizzie.

He didn’t look up. “Of course, my lord. Such soft little pads,” he whispered, playing with the kitten’s paws. “What lovely, silky fur you have.”

“And Grell made a mess on the kitchen floor,” he grinned. “You’ll have to clean it up and give her a bath afterwards. You are not to leave it for Mey-Rin.”

“Certainly, my lord,” he said dreamily, picking up the little creature to nuzzle the top of its head.

William stood, abruptly displacing the puppy who whimpered with disappointment. “Then we’ll be on our way, my lord.”

Ronald bowed elaborately over Lizzie’s hand and followed them to the entry. “Should I try to steal the kitten back from Sebastian?”

“They can probably use a mouser in the stables,” Ciel said. “He’ll be fine here.”

“Very well,” Undertaker said. “Thank you for your help, my lord. Have someone send word where and when I should meet Sebastian.”

Ciel nodded and disappeared back into the drawing room. They opened the door to leave, not before hearing Lizzie’s voice float out to them. “Your friends are very nice, Ciel. Odd, but nice.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Sebastian was waiting for him outside the thicket near the hospital late that night.

“World’s End, eh? I should have thought of that on my own.”

“I was expecting to see you shortly. Taking such measures to enlist my cooperation was not necessary.”

“But it was amusing,” he chuckled.

“Do you truly believe that you will be able to bring Grell back?”

“I do.”

“And you are not worried about what the cost might be?”

“My dear Sebastian,” he said, tapping his fingernail against the butler’s lapel, “I have stood in the Presence of the Higher Up more than once. I have no awe of your Master or the rest of your kind.”

Sebastian’s eyes gleamed red in the darkness; the air around him blurred. “Perhaps you should.”

“Or, perhaps, you should realize that your kind are only permitted to exist because the Higher Up gave humans free will.”

The butler held a branch back, for him to pass beneath, but Undertaker paused and raised his hand to the sky. A sudden beating of wings was heard and a small dove, luminously white in the dark, appeared to alight on his outstretched arm. He whispered to it and the bird fluttered into the trees.

“I may not be as familiar with old legends and myths as Grell, but I did a little research. This was William’s suggestion. You might be aware the Dispatch often uses pigeons to carry messages. William was able to pass on to me a very useful piece of knowledge. We shall wait until it returns.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow and lounged against a tree. “You speak of free will. There is no coercion when a human enters into a contract. The offer is made and accepted.”

“The offer is made when they are at their most desperate and vulnerable,” Undertaker hissed. “A boy . . . frightened . . . hurt . . . alone.”

“Filled with enough rage and hate to summon me.”

“After weeks of torture and unspeakable abuse. Easy prey for the likes of you.”

“But a soul worth savouring—worth seasoning.”

He would not lash out at Sebastian yet. That day was still to come. He fingered his lockets and said slowly, “You’ve made no real effort to help him gain his revenge. You tell yourself that you are fattening his soul for your feast, but that is not why, is it my dear? You know there is something untouchable inside of him, something you don’t understand. You don’t want to fatten his soul, you want to break it because you know that there is an inner core like a diamond to him. His father was the same and his grandmother. You will break your teeth on him before you succeed in devouring him.”

“And you intend to protect this part of him?” he sneered.

“With every ounce of my being.”

“And poor, foolish, sentimental Grell will stand by your side, I suppose. It’s almost a crime what you’ve done to her.” He smoothed his gloves down his fingers reflectively. “When I first encountered her, she was fierce and bloodthirsty and savage—unlike any Grim Reaper I’ve ever seen. I admire her courage in taking your place, but now, she’s like any other fool in love—utterly ordinary and dull.”

Undertaker managed not to burst out laughing. Sebastian knew _nothing_ of Grell. “But you guided her here. Her continued existence clearly makes you uneasy.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “She can be a formidable adversary.”

“And I, even more so,” Undertaker retorted, holding out his hand when the dove swooped over his head. The bird landed fearlessly on his arm and dropped a branch into his hand. “Thank you, my dear,” he murmured as the bird disappeared into the night.

The gold of the branch glowed softly under the light of the almost full moon. “Yes,” he said with a soft laugh, “the Golden Bough—to guarantee safe passage in the Underworld. William is quite learned of the lore of pigeons and doves. That particular bird is used for very special missions by the Dispatch. He assured me that if there was any grain of truth to Virgil’s tale, she would find it and sent her to me.”

“I see,” he said, shrinking back, visibly shaken by such proximity to an artefact of the Divine. “I can take you no further. You know,” he added after a short hesitation, “Grell’s greatest fear when I brought her here last night was that she would not remember you.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“I promised her that she would. She was laughing when she walked away.”

“Of course she was,” Undertaker smiled.

XXXXXXXXXX

The tiny glint of the Golden Bough was all that was visible, but it gave off no light of its own and Undertaker walked unseeingly through the darkness—a blackness such as he had never imagined or experienced. The hue and density never altered, but the fabric of the reality around him seemed slippery.

He tried not to count his steps or judge the passing of time. Had it been minutes or hours since he left Sebastian in the grove? He had encountered barriers—not a wall, but a sense he could go no further in that direction and had no choice but to turn blindly. A high-pitched buzz filled the air as if he were being attacked by swarms of angry insects, but he met emptiness when he tried to swipe them away from his face. The noise pierced his skull, set his teeth on edge and vibrated through his entire body, but he relentlessly walked on until it suddenly stopped.

He was swallowed by a silence so profound that it seemed to suck the air from him. A silence that had weight and substance and slowed his steps. He met a wall. It felt like rough granite that crumbled at his touch, coating his fingers with fine grit and turned again. He could hear his footsteps again, growing louder as the earth beneath him gave way to some harder material like iron. His boots clanged and echoed and every step sent a jolt through him.

And all around him was the smell of death. Of decay and putrefaction and mould that crawled into his nostrils and wove its way through his robes until even he—as familiar with the stench of corpses as he was—had to stop his breathing and fight off the urge to hold his sash over his nose. Underneath was another scent—of something far older, old as the earth itself—of the misery and wretchedness of every soul that had ever entered this realm. Sudden, cold tears coursed down Undertaker’s face as the despair and agony permeated his entire being and, for one awful minute, he began to doubt himself and his quest.

His steps became slower until he stopped and stroked the Golden Bough. His fingers became sticky with sap and its slight aroma blotted out the rot and decay that filled his senses. He began to walk again, this time clinging to the memory of scents that made him smile, that gave him joy—the fresh wood shavings in his workshop, newly cut grass, the little bags of lavender that Grell tucked into the drawers and her rose fragrance.

Had she walked this way the night before? Had she been consumed by the blackness that surrounded him? Or had her streaming hair and scarlet coat lit up even the shadows of the Underworld?

Something scuttled across his foot. The sound of thousands of claws pattered and echoed in the blackness and, for the first time, he could see something in the heavy darkness: hundreds of tiny eyes, gleaming red. But, whatever they were—nascent demons or other fiends—they rushed past him in a great wave, filling the air with gruesome squeals. One tried to climb his leg; he shook it off and held out the Golden Bough and they vanished.

Another wall. This one was smooth like marble and slick with moisture. His feet sank into the viscous muck beneath them, becoming harder to free himself with every step. A smile crossed his face as Undertaker imagined Grell grumbling about spoiling her shoes while she made her way through the ooze. Occasional slimy tendrils brushed across his face and threatened to knock away his hat. How long had he been walking? Maybe this _was_ hell. To be trapped forever, wandering through an endless labyrinth of darkness for eternity.

But there was a tiny pinprick of light in the far distance. He closed his eyes and opened them. It was still there. The mud was beginning to dry, to be replaced something softer that crumbled under the weight of his boots. His progress was quicker, but the light remained frustratingly far away. A soft murmur of voices filled his ears as if each one was trying to whisper a secret to him, but none could be heard clearly. His scalp prickled at the overlapping sibilant noise like a rushing wind that carried the words away.

The noise grew and receded, echoing in his skull like waves on a beach and, just as the blackness faded into grey, it coalesced into a single word: his true name. Someone, something was watching him, waiting for him, expecting him. He clasped the Golden Bough more tightly and stepped out of the darkness to survey the landscape of the dead.

Grey as far as the eye could see, the plain stretched out endlessly, without horizon. He sank almost to his ankles in a fine dust—sand, he thought until he realized his robes were trailing through ash. There were trees—he supposed they could be called such—their bare trunks and branches as smooth as polished ivory and as white as bleached bones. Vague, formless shadows fluttered about, but the overall impression was of great stillness.

The air felt heavy with foreboding—like the uneasy instant before the breaking of a tremendous storm. The hair on the back of his neck stood up; he felt parched by an arid wind, charged with electricity. The awful smells had faded, but the curiously dry, oppressive scent of nothing disconcerted and puzzled him. Had he been expecting the tang of fire and brimstone? The stench of sulphur, rising in gaseous bubbles from the ground?

Undertaker continued walking with no notion of his destination—only a sense that he was recognized and expected and would eventually meet someone or something. He passed shadowy figures; one brushed against his sleeve and crumbled to dust. Had they been human once? Doomed to wander the netherworld until what was left of their souls was leached out? A few had more substance, he noticed; some were recognizable as men or women.

He spied an outcropping on the distant horizon. A smudge of black against the endless plain of grey. Drawing closer, it appeared to be a cave or grotto, surrounded by trees. Great weeping willows trailed their branches onto the ground and tall cypresses that grew higher than he could see, their branches ghostly white with inky black leaves that rustled with a metallic jangle in the nonexistent wind. Stepping carefully around a pool of ebony water, he entered the cave to be confronted by a pair of massive iron doors.

Was he supposed to knock? A faint smile crossed his face as he imagined a cohort of demon butlers, all resembling Sebastian, answering the door and escorting him in. There was a tiny container, resembling the small vases that adorned some headstones, mounted on the wall. Recalling what William had told him of Aeneas’s voyage to the Underworld, he placed the Golden Bough in it and the doors swung open.

It resembled a great hall, carved from blackest rock, but softly lit by torches mounted on the vaulted arches that soared into an infinite darkness. The air was surprisingly chilled—not quite what he had expected to encounter in hell, he thought. His boots echoed on the stone floor as he walked through the huge, seemingly empty space to face the Prince of Darkness.

He was alone in this immense gallery, but he knew he was being watched. “I have come,” he called out, “for what is mine. To return her to where she belongs.”

A voice, low and deep, sounded in his head. “You think to make demands of _me_?”

“She has been touched by the One. You cannot keep her here.”

The torches blew out. He was enveloped by a vast and chilling darkness.

“She came of her own accord in your place. She belongs to me now.”

“She will _never_ belong to you,” Undertaker hissed. “It was an act of love—beyond your reach.”

“And if she is returned, are you prepared to pay my price?”

“Name it.”

And as the words rumbled in his skull, Undertaker felt a powerful certainty take hold of him that his entire existence had led him to this moment.

XXXXXXXXXX

She was waiting outside the cave when he emerged, her coat and hair a vivid crimson beacon in drabness of the shadow world.

“I’ve come to take you home,” he said, taking her hand.

“Of course you have, darling,” she laughed. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You were sure I would come for you?”

“Naturally. Didn’t you once say that you would shake the pillars of heaven or descend to the depths of hell for me? You’ve done one already.” She tucked her hand in his arm and they began to walk. “I suppose we’ll have to travel through that ridiculous maze to get out,” she grumbled. “You didn’t happen to ask if there was another exit while you were chatting with, er—the ruler of this realm?”

Undertaker’s laugh rang out across the featureless plain. Only Grell could show such irreverence. “I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“Pity,” she sniffed. Suddenly, she stopped walking. “There aren’t any conditions to my release, are there? Because it’s too late if you’re not allowed to look at me, but I didn’t eat any food of the dead, I promise.”

“None,” he replied as they were engulfed by darkness.

“Mind you,” Grell’s voice echoed in the surrounding blackness, “I don’t think that lot back there eat at all. No wonder they were all wasting away. We’ll have to ask Sebastian when we get back. I guess he showed you the way here.”

“He brought me to the entrance, but I had considerable help from William,” he said, describing his suggestion to force Sebastian’s cooperation.

She kept up a stream of giggles while Undertaker related the scene at the Phantomhive townhouse. “A kitten! That really was wicked of him. And I wish I could have seen the puppy climbing all over him.”

“The earl chose her name well,” he chuckled.

The journey back seemed much shorter, no doubt due to Grell’s constant chatter. “You know, it’s really frightfully dull there, but, perhaps, that is the true hell—an eternity of boredom. Maybe if I’d been there longer, I would have found some excitement. Looked up some old acquaintances . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

He didn’t need to ask whom she planned to seek out.

“I thought I saw her,” she said quietly. “A glimmer of red in the distance, but I couldn’t get close to her.”

He covered her hand with his and squeezed her gloved fingers. “My dearest,” he murmured, “it is highly improbable that out of the millions of souls in that realm you would have spied her.”

“I know,” she sighed. “I wondered if that was to be my penance—to glimpse her constantly, but never come near. Never be able to tell her that I _did_ love her . . . that she wasn’t boring or ordinary. To tell her that there was someone who would watch over Ciel and fight for him.” Her voice broke.

“Come, my love,” he said softly. “My brave, fierce wild rose. Soon we’ll be home.”

“Good thing too,” she complained as they squelched through the sticky mud. “My shoes will be ruined if I don’t clean them soon and as for your boots . . . Heaven knows how we’ll ever get them looking decent again. I never imagined the Underworld would be so _messy_. The muck and the dust and all. I must be a complete mess. Have I changed at all? Last time I ended out with this.”

Even in the darkness, he knew she was fingering the blaze of silver that had appeared in her hair since her encounter with the Divine.

“Not at all, my dearest. You haven’t changed at all.” He laughed and led her into the light.

XXXXXXXXXX

“How long do you think we were gone?” Grell asked, blinking furiously in the bright sunlight.

“I have no idea. There was really no way of measuring time. It feels like no more than a day, but I see someone who should be able to tell us.”

“Darlings!” she cried, running to meet Ronald and William. “Here we are! Not even a little bit singed.”

“Honestly Grell!” William snorted. “You do have an uncanny knack for covering yourself in drama.”

But there was a gleam of affection in his eyes—and something else. Awe.

“Really William,” she grinned, tossing her hair back, “you make it sound as if a trip to hell is something to get hot and bothered about. How did you know where to find us? Did you entice Sebastian into bringing you here with another kitten?”

William extended his arm to allow the dove to land on his hand. “She led us here.”

“But how did you know we were returning?” Undertaker asked.

He smiled and stroked the little bird’s head tenderly. “I told you she was a very special bird. She appeared on my windowsill carrying this. I knew it meant you had succeeded in bringing Grell back to us.” He produced a wild rose from his coat pocket.

“But how?” Even Undertaker looked puzzled.

“‘And he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and coming to rest on him,’” William quoted softly. “She was procured from a Messenger.”

They watched in silence while the dove took flight and soared into the sky. “Whew!” Ronald exclaimed. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think I could use a drink.”

“I think we could all use one,” Undertaker said.

Back at the shop, while he poured them all glasses of whiskey, Grell finally spoke. “How long were we gone?”

“A week,” William replied.

“Gracious!” she murmured. “It felt nowhere near that long—only a day or two.”

“What was it like, Senpai?”

She set her untouched glass aside. Her other hand had been twined in Undertaker’s since he sat next to her. “Awfully boring, actually. Nothing to do but stand about. Just think, William, if I’d known when we were students, you wouldn’t have been able to frighten me nearly so much.”

“Er—yes,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “The Council wants to see you both tomorrow morning and I was specifically instructed to ask you to say nothing of what has passed. As far as anyone knows, you have been on vacation before the final exams begin.”

“Typical,” she sniffed.

“Honestly Grell! You and Undertaker have once again made a journey that should have been impossible. You have thwarted the Fallen One and returned from hell unharmed and unscathed. Think of the disruption this knowledge could cause in the realm.”

“He is correct, my dear,” Undertaker said, squeezing her hand.

“I don’t know about unscathed,” she grumbled. “My shoes are ruined. I’ll be claiming a new pair on my next expense report.”

William rolled his eyes and Ronald laughed. “Come on, boss. I think it’s time we left. These two probably want to be alone.” He waggled his eyebrows ferociously.

“Too right,” she giggled.

While Ronald and Undertaker carried the glasses to the kitchen, she approached William and laid her hand on his arm. “Dear Will,” she said softly, “only you would have known about the dove. I’m not saying that Undertaker would not have succeeded without your help, but–”

“We’ve been together since the beginning. We’ve been partners, colleagues and adversaries for almost a century. We are bound in ways I still don’t fully understand, but I believe now that our fates are inextricably entwined. We will earn our redemption together as allies—and friends.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Undertaker watched Grell bustle about the kitchen and rummage through the cupboards and drawers.

“Have you seen the clothes brush, darling?” she called out. “I have to get the dust off my coat and your robes if we’re to meet with the Council tomorrow. And can you find the blacking? I’ll see what I can do about your boots.”

“My dearest, please stop fussing and come and sit for a moment. I don’t think the Council will care too much what we look like.”

“Maybe not,” she sniffed, “but _I_ do. A lady should always try to look her best. And I must take a bath and wash my hair. It’s simply caked with dust and yours can’t be much better. We should consider having one of those new showers installed. It would be much easier and–”

He caught her by her shoulders. “My love, please settle down and talk to me.” He knew Grell’s constant chatter and restlessness were ruses to disguise deeper emotion.

“But I don’t know what to say!” she cried. “You’ve carried me into the Presence of the Higher Up; you’ve confronted the Dark One for my sake. I can hardly say ‘Thank you, sir. I’m much obliged.’”

“And you went willingly to hell in my place. Gratitude . . . thanks . . . These are words that are meaningless to _us_.” He threaded his fingers through her hair and peered down into her face. “We are necessary to one another. Powers beyond our comprehension have recognized that. We are _bound_.”

“It’s funny,” she whispered shakily, “William said something quite similar.”

“And he is right. There are terrible times coming. War . . . genocide . . . religious fanaticism we cannot imagine. You and William will oversee the Dispatch together in some capacity, I am sure.”

“And you?”

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “Perhaps my purpose will be to continue to care for the dead. There will be many,” he sighed. “Or to be at your side—to protect you and keep you steady and love you.”

“To make me worthy of the work I’m supposed to do,” she murmured against his lips. “To make me worthy of you and your love.”

She returned his kisses eagerly, opening her mouth to allow him to probe the silken recesses with his tongue. Her cheeks were stained a delicate pink. Most of their kind were stoic and expressionless, but Grell’s face reflected an ever-changing range of emotions. He had seen her red-faced with fury, rosy with passion and pale in fear. She was elusive and untameable—a never-ending challenge and delight.

Her waistcoat had already fallen to the floor. “Come, my love,” he whispered, leading her to their bedroom where she knelt before him to unbuckle his boots. “Silly things, “ he muttered. “I should look for something easier to remove.”

“Don’t you dare!” she exclaimed, pulling them off. “I think you look divine in them.” She rested her head against his legs for an instant. “And I like helping you off with them.” She began to press kisses against his inner thighs, moving higher until he placed his hand on her head.

“Not just yet, my dear,” he said, drawing her to her feet. “Today, I would like to love you like that—to taste you and take all of you.”

Uncertainty flickered across her face. He rarely attempted direct contact until she was fully borne up by their passion, knowing her insecurity and vulnerability, knowing she disliked anything that brought attention to what she believed was all wrong about her. She rarely permitted what he was requesting, usually shying away when he attempted it and had never allowed him to complete the act.

“I won’t press you if you truly dislike the idea,” he said, tipping her chin up with his forefinger, “but I want to love every part of you, to give the same joy you give me.”

She nodded slowly. “I’m foolish, I know,” she said in a low voice, “and selfish to hold back like that, but . . . ”

“But in your deepest heart, you still believe that part of yourself to be ugly and wrong.”

Burying her head against his chest, she mumbled, “Yes, but you’ve always made me feel beautiful and feminine.” She lifted her face and pushed back his hair. “How can I doubt you for even a second?”

“Very well, but if you feel anything but pleasure, you are to tell me immediately. You are not to go along simply to please me.” Uncomfortable memories stirred of vague references to acts she had performed or allowed in the past—things that could have given her no pleasure that she had permitted in desperate attempts to grasp at affection.

“I will,” she promised, tugging off her neck ribbon and unfastening her cuffs.

Undertaker removed her sleeve garters to place them on the bureau and opened her collar before tossing his sash aside while she fumbled with his robes. Cradling her head with one hand, he outlined her jaw with the softest and most delicate of kisses. His tongue traced the whorl of her ear as she shivered in his hold.

She stepped backwards and they tumbled onto the bed. His lips were against her throat. He could feel the wild fluttering of her pulse while he gently nipped at her tender flesh and unbuttoned her shirt. Her hands tangled themselves in his hair and she greedily drew his mouth across her neck. She was a study in contradictions—her slender torso and delicate collar bones appeared deceptively fragile, but he knew her to be tremendously strong. She was fierce and bold and outrageous, but sweet and warm and yielding in his arms.

He cast off his robes and stretched out beside her while she impatiently tossed her shirt away. Holding her close, Undertaker sought and found her most sensitive spots: her faintly blue-veined wrists, the soft skin of the crook of her arms, the hollow of her throat. He covered her with gentle kisses, slow strokes of his tongue and occasional playful nips of his teeth until she was quivering and sighing.

Her translucent skin always fascinated him. To see her grow rosy, to watch the blush slowly appear like dawn in the morning sky. He teased her nipples to taut peaks, flicking his tongue until they flushed a dusky rose while he opened her flies. She lifted her hips to allow him to tug off her trousers, but he left her undergarment alone and moved to kneel at the foot of the bed where he drew off her socks and cradled her foot in his hands.

Grell dissolved into helpless giggles when he began to nibble at her toes, which quieted into soft sighs as he kissed his way up her legs, tickling the backs of her knees with his tongue and delicately scratching his nails along her thighs. She was fully aroused; he could see a tiny wet patch on the front of her lace knickers, but when he deliberately dragged his tongue across the thin fabric, she became still.

Tension radiated from her body, her hands were clenched and, when he glanced upwards, he could see her eyes squeezed shut and stubbornly set jaw.

“My dear?” he murmured and waited, wondering what demons she was battling.

Her fists uncurled and she opened her eyes. “Go on, please darling.” Her smile was shaky, but she reached down to caress his face.

He pulled slightly at the waistband of her undergarment, baring a sliver of her flesh, and pressed slow kisses against her skin while he traced her jutting hipbones with his fingertips. With as much care as possible, he nudged the garment down another fraction, drawing his tongue slowly across the silk of her skin. Gently pulling the lace away, he bared her entirely to his gaze.

Should he continue? She was struggling to remain calm in spite of her obvious arousal. Could he help her to understand that every part of her was beautiful and worthy of love? Or would it be cruel, make her feel that what they shared hadn’t been enough for him?

Hesitantly, his tongue reached out to trace her length and tease the tiny sensitive ridge beneath the head. She gasped softly, but pushed her loins towards him. He loved her with long, slow strokes and lapped at the head, circling it with his tongue until she began to thrust her hips and, holding her firmly, he took her into his mouth.

His head was filled with the spicy scent of her arousal and the salt taste of her. Keeping a steady rhythm, he tried to explore all of her with his tongue—the line that ran along her length, every ridge and vein and the velvet softness of the head. He cupped her heavy sack, felt it grow tight beneath his hand and carefully stroked the sensitive patch of flesh behind. Cautiously, he took in as much as he could and hollowed his cheeks to maintain gentle suction.

She was groaning softly. Her passion was rising; her hands were clawing the sheets helplessly and, glimpsing her face, he saw her head was thrown back, her mouth half-open. She was approaching the peak. Undertaker could feel the tension in her arousal, the pulsing beneath the skin and heard her cry out. He swallowed eagerly, taking all she spilled forth and stroked her with his tongue until the shuddering and throbbing passed.

Moving up the bed, he folded her into his arms and kissed her, drawing her tongue into his mouth.

“I can taste myself,” she said. “I’ve never done that before.”

“And you’re delicious,” he replied. “All of you—beautiful and sweet and lovable. Do you believe me, my dearest?”

“How can I not?” she asked in a low voice. “You’ve never made me feel any other way. And now it’s my turn.”

“And what would _you_ like?” he chuckled.

She wound her arms around his neck and pulled him atop her. “I want you to hold me close and fill me with your love.” Passing him a bottle of oil, she wrapped her legs around him. “Take your own pleasure and be selfish for once. Let me watch you while you do.”

He stroked her face. “You must allow me a few minutes to make you ready. I will _not_ be that selfish or reckless of you.”

Sometimes, they were heedless, almost brutal in their passion, carried away by furious desire. Sometimes, they surrendered to the darkness that dwelt inside them both, but today, with the dust of the Underworld still clinging to their skin and hair, he would not.

His oiled fingers slipped into her. Glowing with fulfilment, she was relaxed and ready and accepted them with no distress. Mindful of his nails, he carefully scissored them and felt her blossom under his touch as he coaxed her to open herself to him and when she stretched out her arms, he knew she was ready.

Grell took the oil and tipped the bottle over him, smoothing it slowly down his length and guided him forward. There was a moment of resistance, but he sank into her with a low groan, surrounded by her velvet heat. Her arms were around him, her legs were entwined with his and her hips rose to meet his every thrust, urging him on.

She consumed him entirely—her green-gold eyes, fixed on his face, glowing with contentment, her soft cries and whispered words of love in his ears, the ever-changing play of rose and pink across her skin. Not even the dust and ash of the Underworld could dim the vibrant silk of her hair as it rippled across the sheets, touched by fire in the late afternoon sun that streamed in through the window. Nor could it blot out her fragrance, redolent of roses and spiced by their passion. She was warm and wonderfully tight, holding him in the very centre of her being.

His head reeled and his heart pounded. His blood was singing in his veins as she bore him higher and higher to catch at the ecstasy she promised him. He slowed his thrusts to savour the heat that pooled in his loins, to catch his breath and peer down into her face and to capture her mouth with his own.

Her teeth grazed him slightly; he could taste his own blood mingled with hers where she had bitten her lip, adding a sharp edge to his pleasure. She glowed with a light, pearly sheen of sweat and they moved easily together in languorous harmony. The bliss rose and receded like waves on a beach, carrying him to his destination—to find joy in her, to discover rapture in her embrace and, finally, peace and fulfilment in her arms.

XXXXXXXXXX

“We’re going to have to put fresh linens on the bed,” Grell said, leaning her head, wrapped in a towel, against the rim of the bathtub. “We were both frightfully grubby.”

“Of course, my dear,” Undertaker replied, combing out his own wet hair.

“And tomorrow, after we’ve seen the Council, you’re coming to the shops in the realm with me. You promised,” she said, glaring at him accusingly.

“Yes, my love,” he said, repressing a groan. Maybe he would get lucky and a sudden outbreak of bubonic plague would force him back to London and the shop.

“I have no idea what we’re going to do about supper,” she complained. “I imagine everything in the larder is spoiled.”

“I’m sure we’ll find something,” he said, holding out a towel while she climbed from the tub. “You look worried. We won’t starve.”

“It’s not that,” she replied, towelling herself briskly and slipping into a wrapper. “Aren’t you concerned about our meeting with the Council? This whole business started because it was decided that you weren’t earning your redemption.”

“Truly, no. After recent events, I suspect that it will be decided that my current work is sufficient. Just as your work with your students is.”

Her hair tumbled down in a sodden mass when she removed the towel. Drawing a comb through it, she said, “I will admit I’m anxious to see how they are managing. There should be some preliminary reports by now.”

“Then, perhaps, you’d rather spend tomorrow looking them, instead of going shopping,” he said hopefully.

“Sorry darling,” she giggled. “There’s no escaping it. You’re probably wishing that they’d managed to ship you off to hell now, aren’t you?”

“It seems like only a slightly worse fate,” he grinned.

XXXXXXXXXX

“Look darling!” Grell exclaimed, pointing in a shop window. “There’s that lovely eiderdown I was telling you about. We must get it. Your quilt is simply too disgraceful.”

Heads swivelled to stare at the notorious red reaper, accompanied by the silver-haired legend, burdened down by many packages and bags.

“All right, my dear, but then we must stop. Heaven knows how we’re going to get all this back to the shop.”

“We’ll use the Courier,” she said, waving her hand dismissively.

“The Courier is supposed to be employed only to transport items of the utmost importance to the human world. I don’t think home furnishings qualify.”

“Oh pooh!” she said, sailing into the shop. “Do you think anyone would say anything to _us_? Now?”

Probably not, he thought, struggling to balance another package. They had been met by puzzled, awestruck and, occasionally, frightened glances. Even the Council had been diffident in requesting that Grell say as little as possible about what had transpired and as for him . . . He had nearly choked with laughter when they assured him that the Seniors and the Messengers had been in communication with them—of course, he was to continue doing his very valuable and necessary work.

Grell signed the bill and tucked it into her pocket. “I don’t know about you, but I could murder a cup of tea. There’s a nice little tea shop around the corner.”

“Not too far, I hope. My feet are hurting,” he grumbled.

“Says the man who walked through hell and back,” she giggled.

“We should have gone to The Club,” he said a few minutes later when they were seated at a tiny table. “It’s members only and everyone here is staring at us.”

“Better than having all the high Mucky-Mucks staring at us,” she retorted. “All wondering why the legendary Undertaker would have bothered fetching the shame of the Shinigami back from hell. Speaking of which, darling, you still haven’t told me.”

“Told you what?” he asked with a smile.

“What you had to do to get me back. What was the price?”

Undertaker took a swallow of his tea and sat back in his chair. “The price? Why, what else but the most precious thing there is? I made him laugh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alcestis appears in Greek mythology as the wife of King Admetus, who was given a chance to cheat death if someone else would take his place. She was returned to her husband by Heracles, who defeated Hades in single combat.
> 
> The Golden Bough is from Book VI of Virgil's _Aeneid_. Two white doves lead Aeneas to a grove where he finds the bough that guarantees safe passage in the Underworld.


End file.
